


Thin Air

by foreverhalffull



Category: Cormoran Strike Series - Robert Galbraith
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-16
Updated: 2020-11-16
Packaged: 2021-03-09 21:15:58
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,384
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27592604
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/foreverhalffull/pseuds/foreverhalffull
Summary: Robin has a bad day.
Comments: 15
Kudos: 19





	Thin Air

Robin Ellacott did not know what to do. 

She managed to hold it together as she left the consultants’ offices and in the elevator; the cleaner and business executive didn’t need to watch her breakdown reflected sixfold in its mirrored walls and ceiling. 

She could feel her face reddening as she walked down the street; the flush was uncomfortably hot. She ducked her head as she passed Ilsa’s inconveniently nearby office block, just in case her friend happened to be out and about. She was sure she wouldn’t be able to withstand seeing someone in that moment, or receiving their pity.

By the time she reached the Land Rover, her shallow breaths had made her dizzy, and the cool glass of the window burned against her hot forehead. How could she have gotten things so wrong? She seemed to be messing up more things than she was achieving these days, and the shortcomings which had seemed manageable the day before now felt like an objective metric, in sum dictating her fundamental worthlessness as a human being.

When she had misplaced an entire year’s worth of case files during their move of offices – and broken Cormoran’s favourite mug, which she’d wrapped inadequately – she had felt horrible, but she had apologized. A new mug was purchased, and the four-year-old files were written off, as it was unlikely they’d be needed, anyway.

She had shown up for the wrong surveillance shift twice in the past fortnight, and she had apologized profusely both to Pat and to Hutchins, who had been inconvenienced both times. She now checked the rota nervily, even in the middle of a shift, constantly sure she was in the wrong where previously, she had been confident. But she was no longer a secretary or assistant or office manager; though her shortcomings were inconvenient, they bore no implications on her value as an investigator.

And just the night before, she’d fallen and made a complete tit of herself in the Zumba class she took with Vanessa each week. Her rhythm had never been stellar, but she’d always been comforted by the fact that dance wasn’t her specialty, that there were other things she was good at, that no one was watching -- until everyone was.

She’d snapped at Cormoran over the phone this morning; he had told her that her conclusion was too hasty, and they’d do well to gather more evidence before presenting it to the company who’d hired them to investigate their CEO. She’d called her best friend unsupportive, said he didn’t trust her abilities or her insight, had he not learned over the years that she knew what she was talking about? Putting together psychological clues of niche phobias was one of her investigative specialties, one of the primary strengths she brought to the team, and she was confident in it.

What, oh what had Robin been thinking? Strike had rung off, had conceded that she was a partner in the firm and could handle her own cases as she saw fit. She now wondered whether this concession was made not out of trust in her, but in hopes that she would make a mistake and learn from it. She faced the double embarrassment of having been wrong, and of him knowing so. She wasn’t sure which hurt worse. 

Her ability to be a good friend, or at least a fundamentally nice and respectful person, and to be a good investigator had been the two most integral parts of her character, the two things she was proud of and confident in when all of the other things went wrong. Fucking up their move, or the rota, or her Zumba class, or even her marriage years before had been acceptable losses. But now that she’d failed at being both a good investigator and just _good,_ what else was there left to be good at?

Nothing. That’s what she was, that’s what she had.

Nothing.

Nothing felt like the right thing to do – sometimes, when they’d had a bad day, she and Cormoran would go for chips or kebabs or a pint, but the idea of food was nauseating and repulsive. Sometimes Ilsa or Vanessa could talk her down, but she didn’t want to call one of them, and be forced to relive the whole ordeal. During the years she worked after leaving uni, she had always treated herself to supermarket flowers on a rough day, but the idea of it seemed silly and useless now, given all of the darkness Robin had seen in the world, that flowers which were destined only to wilt in their pitcher – Robin had retained no vases from her marital home – could fix anything.

A hug would have been appreciated, but Robin knew of no one in her life she could ask for one, and the thought sent her deeper still in her spiral. How long had it been since she'd been loved?

She was not aware she was driving until she had been doing so for what must have been two hours or more. Had she been more aware of her surroundings, she would not have stopped at Donington Park services, which she’d avoided for three years. She wasn’t entirely sure of her destination as she drove toward Masham, just a vague notion that she had wanted to drop out – _of what?_ , she asked herself, receiving no reply more specific than _life._

She eventually found herself at the stable where Angus had once been boarded, which had since gone out of business. It was owned by the brother-in-law of her mother’s cousin, though she’d always referred to him as her uncle, and she had spent the majority of her teenage years there. It felt more like home than the house her parents owned, which was only minutes away via a path through the woods at the edge of the pasture. Robin wondered if the path remained, or whether it had been only her own trodding which had long ago weathered it into existence.

She parked beside the barn and slipped through its doors. The bolt still had the same trick to it; if you pulled the left handle up at just the right angle as you forced the door up and forwards, it released. Her muscle memory jogged a desolately hopeful thought for Robin: maybe there was precisely one thing she was good at, though she didn’t expect it would count for much in the grand scheme of things.

The barn smelled slightly staler and less shitty than she’d remembered, likely due to its lack of animals in recent years. She climbed up to the loft where she’d done her sixth form homework in another lifetime, noting that the ladder and loft alike felt smaller to her adult body. She sat in the corner for a moment, before rolling into a fetal position. She gathered some hay in her fist and let it fall between her fingers, then repeated the soothing action until the dust it raised caused her to sneeze. Her eyes burned, and her face felt dry. It was a relief to be finally lulled to sleep by the gentle vibrating emanating from beneath her.

She awoke some time later with a start, unsure why she was shivering in the dark with hay in her hair, clad in a pencil skirt, blazer, and heels. What a sight she must have been, and unfortunately, she had a beholder.

“Robs?” Jonathan was kneeling at the edge of the loft, beside the ladder.

“What are you doing here?” she asked.

“I could ask the same of you,” he replied, but he received no answer but a noncommittal groan from his older sister.

“Cormoran called, reckon he got my number off of Max from when I came to visit. He was worried about you.” Jonathan’s slow, cautious tone implied that Cormoran was not alone in his concern.

“I don’t know why I came here. I don’t want to be here. I don’t know why I’m here, J.”

Jonathan furrowed his eyebrows at his siter’s whispered words. He crawled closer, the space being too small for him to stand up to his full height, and patted her shoulder awkwardly. He didn’t ask what had happened, for which she was grateful. It wasn’t worth breaking down over, after all, but she had.

**Author's Note:**

> This was probably hella OOC because it's mostly me projecting lol. Likely a 70% chance I delete this later, we'll see :/


End file.
